*BOOM*
Red intestines plopped against the exterior of the limousine, blood pooling through the uneven cracks present within the bitumen below the thugs' feet. The smell of iron wafted upwards, the sulphurous smell of freshly soiled pants mixing with the crimson scent. Many men gagged as the clatter of weapons and shattered bone was lost amid the infernal fireball's roar.
"ARGH! WHO DID THIS!?" Sweat pooled down the Italian mobsters surrounding Kingpin as they looked between each other. In this scan two specifically paled and opened their mouths to cry out a warning...
Sadly, they would never finish their cry. No words, no sound. The decapitations were so swift, the blood had no time to flow. The only warning for their comrades were the sickly, fleshy, pops of bone and viscera cracking against the road. Yet, even the sound of the sickening pops was swallowed by the ranting and raving of their King.
Three more vanished amidst the distant glow of fire, said flames drawing nearer, its flames twisting like ancient serpents and dragons as chemicals erupted in a chaotic dance, tainting the once-pure red flames with an unnatural hue. "Whoever did this... IS GOING TO PAY...!!!" Kingpin howled out in fury, his knuckledusters crumpling under his fist, the fine white suit he usually wore slowly succumbing to soot.
Only ten thugs remained, half sluggishly coming to realise their dwindling numbers. This realisation was too ill-fated however as five more were violently eviscerated. Body parts and desecrated clothes tumbled to the floor, as the fire cast an eerie malevolent glow over the devastation. Buildings were consumed in the conflagration as the once-red fire now mutated into bright oranges, yellow, blues and pinks. The five remaining men wailed their warnings, but they failed to make an impact as their voices were all simultaneously snuffed out... The last vibrating echoes of their cries being the slapping of exposed vocal cords to freshly exposed air.
In an instant, only one man remained. The marred but still pompous suit of the Kingpin flapping in the early morning breeze as the fire invaded the interiors of nearby apartment blocks and backstreet plants maintained by the Crime King's gangs. He stood there alone, unaware, not a molecule of sound escaping his lips as he watched a key part of his empire fall before him.
This silence was then broken by the man himself... His voice filled with trepidation, exhaustion and a hatred so vile that it could almost make mountains collapse upon themselves. "Jonas! Bring me the one with sight." He waited... and nothing answered. Immediately the soot-stained suit shifted, his anger-marred face scowling in the direction that Jonas had once stood... Alas, Jonas was no more... All he saw were the sloppy piles of his dead minions, what were once his allies now painted across the exterior of his own luxury car.
Clapping reverberated through the blood-soaked tempest that had been the last ten minutes... An evil stab to the already weakened king's heart. Disbelief flashed across the Kingpin's features whilst his rage sat oddly dampened beneath the visceral display of his allies' current states.
"Well done, mate... You were pathetically easy to track down and lure out... Almost reminds me of Elena!" From the shadows stepped a man, or something like one, fiery red hair blazing like the backdrop behind him, aristocratic drawl curling from his lips as he smiled gleefully at his prey.
A colder, harsher voice succinctly cut through the dramatic flair with scalpel-like precision. "Now brother, cease your games. We have work to do and questions to ask..." Kingpin growled as he swiftly flicked his attention between the two men.
Flames coiled menacingly behind them as soot and smoke smothered the sky, choked the atmosphere and stung the eyes of the former king. His observation was flawed here, ill-conceived in the attempt as only the outlines of their forms could be seen amidst the inferno.
"Elijah, you're starting to sound like Finn... Will you soon add the customary stick up the ass and tattoo of mother's name?" Kingpin coughed into his hands as he began to panic… his eyes were gradually burning, the oxygen was growing too thin, his lungs charred in the drifting embers that swirled like ash-laced fireflies down his throat.
"Fine. If you shall not take this seriously, then I shall..." Kingpin braced himself, his body instinctively entering a Taijutsu stance. His muscles coiled, his form tight like a spring, ready to unleash whatever force was left in him. But it was useless in the face of whatever these two were... His resolve shattered as, in a blur, his face slammed into the blood-soaked streets he once ruled.
A light entered his vision, the image unclear to him. Was it the afterlife calling to him? Could it be the apocalyptic flames that had reduced his pride and empire to the dust of time? Perhaps, it was his life slowly fading away into the embrace of the one who guided souls to the afterlife... His musings were wrenched from him in milliseconds as a gut-wenching pain grasped him back from the clutches of the divine and sent him spiralling back into the despotic malaise of life.
"We're not finished with you yet... No, no, no... You dying would be too easy." Klaus smiled evilly as his brother Elijah adjusted his cufflink off to the side, his tone mixed with a perpetually held back sigh... "Brother, stop your incessant showmanship and simply charm him already."
"How Hayley loves you will forever be a mystery older brother..." The fiery-haired man, nay, devil, hunched over the Kingpin's form as his eyes expanded and glowed ominously red. "Tell us who you report to."
Kingpin nodded as the fire in his lungs and the blood poring from his nose no longer mattered. All that mattered was this being's questions and of course, his own answers.
...
The Continental...
"~Yes, John, it seems Brooklyn is on fire tonight. The conflagration kicked up around 6 am this morning and has yet to subside as the flames have struck multiple chemical warehouses and bootleg drug operations! At this current moment it seems unlikely that much of Brooklyn will survive...~"
The television blared from the corner, casting harsh light on the red-eyed, black-haired Uchiha gathered around the bed. They watched footage of flames consuming empty warehouses and gang operations as normal people fled for their lives.
"It seems the vampires have finished their work..." The words hung in the air like a guillotine. Their mission was equally as easy as the vampires' had been, yet they were still planning, a vile insult to the Shinobi, as though their honour were being spat on.
"Yes, but it's chaotic... Foolish. They lack stealth, tact." An older member of the current squad murmured his thoughts aloud and the Jōnin all nodded along in agreement.
"Indeed." A single word, but it was powerful, drawing all of them from the self-reflection and analysis of their counterpart's work. Many of them sharpened weapons whilst a few sat in complete silence. Pre-fight rituals were personal, rarely did multiple Shinobi prepare together. This was especially true for the Uchiha.
After several minutes of quiet contemplation the most senior Jōnin stood. His face was unreadable, emotions buried beneath trained serenity, as he looked over all of his companions and even more importantly, family.
"We strike within the hour. You all know your positions and understand the targets. Mr Ned is not to be killed, in fact, it is a priority that you save him if at all possible." They all nodded.
"Good. Disperse." Many started slipping out the door to the room as several substituted with pre-placed wooden blocks. The attack tonight would be lethal, quick and devastating. No neighbourhoods would burn because of the Uchiha tonight.
Thirty Minutes Later...
Winston looked up from his paperwork to see the star of his constellation, the apple of his eye, John Wick... Descending into the chamber, blood soaking his suit, an assault rifle gripped in his hands.
Gulping down the last remnants of his room-temperature whiskey, Winston regarded the symbol of death, the so-called bogey man. He was enraged, furious, deadly. Tension wasn't a word for him, he embodied it. His every action and movement was poised to kill. No momentum was wasted and every single twitch was an instinctual response to minor twitches from other mercenaries around him.
And that, Winston knew, did not bode well. Just a month or two ago, he'd wiped out the very mafia he helped build. He tried to slip away yet again, but as he had once told him, once you were back, you were back. A rather Irish statement, but it still held truth. That wasn't what set him on edge though... It was the cocky appearance of the new up-incoming table head. An arrogant Italian piece of shit that thought that political power now gave him the powers of god... A fatal delusion.
John aimed his rifle at the sack of shit, A sight he'd normally relish, best served with fine wine and a chef's precision... Yet, this was continental grounds. Not just that, it was his continental grounds, nothing could get in the way of him and his comforts, his life...
"John... Don't do this john. This is continental ground." His voice echoed toward the reawakened Reaper, the tailored suit barely masking the suffering beneath.
The man looked conflicted, almost rabid. John was hardly ever emotional, usually more contained and tactical. This was different, strange, almost disturbing. He raised his rifle, the little Italian shit pissing him off more with his shitty Latin words. Winston could feel a snarl creeping across his own face as he watched the entire showdown. The boy facing the Reaper had no idea what consequences awaited him.
"John. Don't do this! He is baiting you to destroy yourself!" Winston grimaced. The Italian had done nothing John hadn't already suffered at his hands. He'd called in the mage. He'd sealed her fate. And now he dared to speak of restraint? How could he posture without vomiting his own sins across the room?
His words carried only as much weight as his hollow conscience allowed. John squeezed the trigger, and brain matter painted the walls in a fine red mist. Patrons sputtered, spitting fragments from their drinks or lips, horror twisting their faces. Perhaps it was best to call him the Grim Reaper? A cold shiver of rage and regret slid beneath Winston's skin as he exhaled, not relief, but shame.
"Very well then..." They were the only words he could muster for what had just unfolded. Winston knew that, sooner or later, that would be his fate, especially if the Grim Reaper ever uncovered his role in the tragedy that claimed his wife.
"The debt is settled. Officially." Wick huffed, snatching a glass of champagne from a nearby table. The room was clearing out, patrons vanishing like smoke, leaving behind a silence so heavy it scraped at the nerves.
Winston felt his throat tighten as he watched the re-forged man down his drink in a single motion.
"Joh—"
The word barely left his mouth before half a dozen ninja stars flashed toward him. His suit deflected most, but they weren't the real threat... An oppressive weight crushed him to the floor, and his thoughts began to blur. His fingers clawed at the pendant around his neck as it pulsed, resisting whatever unseen force clawed at his mind.
Wick turned to face the intruders, whatever they were. He calmly secured his rifle, posture still and coiled. He made no move to help, no gesture of concern, merely watched, ready, waiting... as long as they didn't target him. It made Winston seethe. The amount of investment, training, and friendship he'd poured into his grim reaper was staggering, yet he did nothing to aid him. He simply stood like an ancient stone, unwilling to move.
A pang of guilt and pain surged through him for a brief moment. His mind grasped at the idea that this was some form of karmic balance. That thought brought low his mental defences however as soon he was faced with the torturous vision of his mother and father being abused by hundreds of men... A facet of his life in the gutters of the hood. Ravens coiled around his vision as a singular blood-red moon hung in the sky ominously. Then the image shifted and he was standing next to the man who he had hired to dissolve his investment's current attachment.
Lucius, he called himself... A vile man of questionable sexuality. He liked them young and did very little to hide it. That was fine with Winston though. So long as he got access to what he wished, there was nothing too vile to deal in. His mind ebbed back to the bleak red-tainted surface as the spinning spirals invaded his memories once more.
He spoke to a the head of the mafia here in New York, made by his investment and thus something he considered his own. The man was conceited and naturally arrogant, but that was fine since he got him connected to a group could, funnily enough, the Illuminati... A rather dramatic name and easily connected with conspiracy theories across the internet. But apparently they were true and some of their businesses were indeed as the conspiracy nuts explained... BlackRock, Vanguard... Hah, it was all there for everyone to see yet they couldn't or at least chose not to.
Winston gasped as he collapsed to the floor, Japanese flawlessly being spoken above his head as he noted half a dozen boots surrounding him. John was conversing with them, but it did not seem he was against them or aiding them. The dialogue was much like two ships passing in the night, tense but strangely serene.
"H-help..." Winston managed a strangled cry as an older looking man bent down and looked him in the eyes. "Dare mo omae no hanashi nado kikanai. Saa, omae no himitsu o akase."
The Japanese slid over his ears as his consciousness receded once more. All of his memories were being plucked from his skull by enemies... And he could do nothing about it...
The last thing he heard before he fully submerged in his grief was the reaper's voice... "No."
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